Scars and Secrets (Loose Ends Book 1)

by Avril Ashton

  They hit their mark. Every last word spoken in such anguish. They tore him open, but he hid the impact. He’d created all this so Van owned it, accepted it as his due. He didn’t even bother trying to explain Dutch had re-wired their bedroom without Van’s knowledge. That didn’t matter.

  “I’m sorry about Gia.” He’d cared deeply for Levi’s best friend, seeing her more as an ally rather than competition for Levi’s affection. They’d shared something special once, the three of them. He’d grieved for her. Her death could’ve been avoided, if he’d been man enough to come clean before Dutch took the choice from him.

  The devastation on Levi’s face at the mention of his son’s mother was yet another blow. So many fucking hits, it was a wonder Van remained standing. Still he pushed down the pain in his chest. He wasn’t allowed it. Levi hadn’t hurt him, not really. Van had done it all himself and it canceled out his right to feel anything other than guilt and shame.

  “Where’s Izek?” he asked. Glancing around, he took a step backward toward the stairs leading to the second floor. “Izek?” he called out. “Where’s my son?”

  Levi laughed. “You just remembered you have a son?” He pounded his chest. “He’s my son. Mine, and he’s not here.”

  “I’m not leaving until I see him.” He’d come as much for Levi as he did for Izek. He’d made a promise. “Where is he?”

  “Out of the country, thanks to Pablo.” Levi gave Van his back, made his way to the door. “Why don’t you go, huh? We’re done, leave me alone.”

  “Oh, that’s not going to happen.” Van went to him, stood close enough for their shoulders to brush. Levi stared straight ahead, face expressionless. “Last time we did this your way.” He licked his lips, jerked his chin. “I’m walking out this door now, but I’m not leaving.” But he had to get out. He had to deal with the way his body shook so fucking badly. With the way his heart was jackhammering in his chest. Van counted to ten, until he was relatively sure his voice wouldn’t give away his torment. Leaning over, he whispered. “The marks on my chest from your fingernails, and the tongue you couldn’t fucking wait to slide all over mine says we’re so not done. This round will be done my way. Call Castillo.” He walked through the open door, and it slammed shut behind him.

  Seconds later something thumped against it. A fist or a foot.

  Downstairs, outside the condo, Van hopped into his rental car and drove to the liquor store down the block. Mind a riot, armed with a bottle of Jack hidden inside a brown paper bag, he parked near a basketball court, unbuckled his seatbelt and uncorked the liquor. He did that with one hand while dialing Mel with the other. He needed to be numb, but he wanted her more right now. Needed to get drunk. She would understand. Mel always understood. If things were different their conversations wouldn’t be these one-sided phone calls. If things were different…

  What’s your name?

  The question still ricocheted.

  How could he have done it? Hurt that man upstairs? How could he have thrown them away? Their trust was gone. The only thing left was anger and pain. How did they build anything off that?

  What had he done?

  “Mel.” Throat dry, words rough as though he’d been chewing on gravel, Van choked as the liquor slid down his throat. Burned. Fuck, but it burned, dampening his eyes. He panted, eyes tightly shut. Fingers clenched around the bottle. For life. His lifeline. “Mel,” he whispered her name. Broken. He couldn’t lie. Fucking broken, man.

  The weight of his encounter with Levi pressed down on his shoulders so he bunched over. Seven years, and Levi had no clue if Van’s name was indeed his name. That shit stripped him raw. He’d thought he knew what he’d done.

  He hadn’t.

  No fucking clue, until that question.

  “He didn’t know my name,” he told Mel in a voice fucked by the liquor and his guilt. “He didn’t know my name.” He’d promised to be true. To love. Protect.

  He’d promised. And he’d taken the trust given so easily, so freely, and used it to decimate the one person he loved more than himself. He’d been asleep the past seven years, and the sight of the wrecked man upstairs woke him up to the reality. Maybe he no longer deserved it, that forgiveness he’d come here seeking. Maybe he no longer had any claims to it, the family he’d shitted on.

  He kept his eyes closed, kept his head tilted, and kept pouring the Jack down his throat until the bottle was empty. When the languid warmth spread to every corner of his body and caused his eyelids to droop, he whispered, “I don’t know what to do, Mel.” The words cracked there so he cleared his throat, pinched the bridge of his nose, and tried again. “Tell me how to fix it.” But of course she didn’t, so he ended the call.

  The effects of the liquor stroked him into an uneasy and uncomfortable sleep where he dreamt of losing them, Levi and Mel. He tried his damndest, but every time he tried to save one, the other died.

  Mel’s screams ringing in his head jerked him awake, panic thudding in his chest, breath gasping as he fumbled for his phone and called Dutch.

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you have men on Mel?”

  “Van?”

  “I asked a question? Who do you have on Mel?” His voice high, shrouded in fear and desperation when Dutch took way too long to answer the question. “Dutch, I swear to God.”

  “Will you calm down?” Dutch sighed, and Van heard papers shuffling in the background. “Are you drunk again?”

  “You’re not answering my question, Dutch.” Fear threatened to overwhelm him and Van reached for the Jack only to realize he’d drank it all. He slid his tongue along the rim anyway.

  “No one’s hurting Mel, Van. Trust me.” Dutch spoke softly.

  “I don’t trust you, thought we’d established that?” Van tried to tamp down on the panic. Mel was alone out there, and Seraphina was on the fucking loose. “I also recall hearing you make that same empty promise before Seraphina tried to get at her that last time.”

  “We going back through ancient history now?” Dutch asked in a smooth tone.

  “Just tell me,” Van barked. “I need to know she’s safe, Dutch.”

  “Van, come on. You know—”

  “Tell me where Mel is. If anything happens to her I won’t hesitate to make sure you face the same fate. You get me?”

  “You threatening me?” Dutch’s tone switched up mighty fast, morphing from smooth to low and dangerous. Any other man would run for cover when Dutch adopted that cadence, but Van wasn’t scared. Not one bit.

  “I just want Mel protected,” Van said. “Make it happen.”

  Dutch went silent for a few heartbeats then said, “I’ll get back to you, but Van…know this, you try that threatening bullshit on me again and I’ll come for you myself.”

  Van shrugged. Dutch never issued a threat he wasn’t prepared to carry out, but Van didn’t give two fucks about that. “I will threaten you again,” Van told him. “And when you come for me we’ll talk about you keeping my husband and son from me, Hunter.” He hung up.

  He didn’t care about Dutch and his hurt feelings, and he damn sure wasn’t scared. He knew who Dutch was now. When shit hit the fan with Levi, Mark had figured telling Van the truth about their operation would have brought him over to their side. Fucking fool. But now Van knew Dutch was an orphaned CIA operative rescued by Mark Dulles, the one to put the crew together with Dutch’s help. Mark had given Dutch a new identity in exchange for something Mark didn’t bother telling Van, but it didn’t matter the whys. Mark’s motives weren’t altruistic, he’d wanted to go after Seraphina Cook, using the excuse of taking down her husband.

  Dutch’s reasons for agreeing to the partnership weren’t dissimilar to Mark’s, but Van actually understood Dutch’s motivation. Didn’t mean he wouldn’t use that shit to his advantage should Dutch decide to be more of a problem than he was now.

  He stumbled from his car, empty Jack bottle in his hand, and flagged down a livery cab on the corner. Van hopped in, eyes crossing
as he informed the driver to take him to Queens in a flurry of slurred words.

  “Forty-five dollars,” the Haitian behind the wheel told him while staring straight ahead.

  Van sniffed. “I don’t remember asking the price. Let’s move.” The vehicle smelled like fish. Raw, dead fish that had been out in the sun too long. He rolled down a window and threw his head back.

  He had business in Queens. Family business, like he’d told his pal Sullivan Black. Maybe dealing with that would take his head and heart off Levi up there in that condo.

  He’d gone after Levi as was his job, the mission. But he’d found Levi tied to the hip with Gia, a gorgeous Pilipino beauty with whom Levi had conceived a son. Though Gia had her own relationships, she and Levi occasionally slept together when they weren’t attached to other people. They’d shared a bed, the three of them, and some of their hottest sex had involved Gia.

  She hadn’t been a prop or some random chick used to fulfil their needs. She’d been family. They’d loved her. Van had loved her, but he’d been so gone over Levi. So gone the instant their eyes met in the supermarket checkout line. Gia knew how they felt about each other, and she’d encouraged it. So here they were seven years later, Gia in the grave, and Levi and Van relative strangers. He didn’t recognize the man he’d married, and wasn’t that just fucked up?

  How could Levi look the same and be so goddamn different? Even as he asked himself that question, Van knew the answer. He happened. He was the reason Levi was like this now. The reason for the devastation in his eyes and the tightness round his mouth, as though Levi no longer smiled. Van was the reason for the lies and the heartache.

  The madness. He’d created the tornado that blew though their lives and left it a wrecked disaster zone. A crime scene. He was the answer to all the whys and how comes.

  His phone went off and he glanced down at it.

  His father.

  Van tossed the phone next to him on the car seat and fished out the two pills he’d been holding on to from his jeans pocket. He tossed them back, swallowing them dry. Then he put his head back and drifted. Voices filtered through, along with blurry images of them.

  He and Levi. Laughing. Touching.

  Then he saw Levi hurting, begging for answers. Something meatier—more substantive—than it was my job. Fucked up thing was there really were no other reasons than that.

  The job.

  For the mission.

  He’d gone to his knees at the force of the devastation in Levi’s eyes. The knowledge that he’d been the one to do that, to strike that blow, he would never recover from that guilt. From the responsible. No escape from it, though the pills he’d just swallowed dulled the ache just enough so he could breathe.

  Lucid moments hurt too much.

  If what he’d just experienced in that Coney Island condo was anything to go by, he’d have to kiss those few lucid moments goodbye. Yet, even as awareness fell away and he dropped to half-lay across the car seat, he knew nothing he felt could compare to what he’d done to Levi.

  How did Levi do it?

  How was he standing?

  Van lingered in a hazy state, eyes closed, eyeballs rolling as the driver droned on and on about God knew what. Everything buzzed inside his head, making him dizzy. Time was supposed to heal things, wasn’t it? Make it not hurt so much? Why wasn’t it working, why did he feel as if he’d just lost it all? As if this, now, was the beginning of the end? Why did it hurt so fucking much knowing that Levi and Castillo were still so obviously close? Friends. But they weren’t just friends. They’d been lovers. They’d been intimate.

  The fact that Levi had known just who Castillo was when he got into bed with him was a fist to the gut, a punch to the throat. A fucking kick to the nuts. Every last one of those blows doubling Van over.

  “Mister. Mister.”

  The rapping snapped Van’s eyes open. He struggled upright, blinking. “What?”

  “Don’t die in my car, okay?”

  “Fuck you, dude. I’ll die where the fuck I want.” He realized they’d stopped. “Where are we, anyway?”

  “In Queens, like you said.”

  They’d arrived, obviously. He peeked out the car window at the small white house they were parked in front of. Night had fallen and lights were on inside. Two cars were in the driveway. Van swallowed then grimaced. His mouth was bone-dry, tongue heavy as the taste of the Jack remained.

  “You getting out?”

  Maybe not. He still harbored some kind of doubt about Israel Storm being his brother. God only knew how long that fucker Dutch had been sitting on the information. Sharing it with Van meant Dutch had a reason. Every move that guy made, every word he spoke, was calculated.

  He wanted something.

  Van just had to figure out what. In the meantime…

  He tossed some money at the driver through the Plexiglas partition. “Keep the change.” His words slurred, he was seeing shit in doubles and triples, but he got out anyway. Staggered up that driveway anyway. Lifted a fist to pound on the door.

  Last second he stopped. Hesitated. Why was he here? Did he want to know? Did he need this? Standing was hard work, so he leaned forward, put a shoulder to the door in an effort to brace himself. Except the door moved, opened, and Van tripped, staggered inside.

  “Wah yuh ah do?” A gun cocked at his ear. “Nobady neva teach yuh fi knock?”

  Van righted himself, more difficult that it should have been if he were on his game, and met Israel Storm’s gaze. The impact was huge, immediate, and terrifying. “You look like her.” The words were slurred, and he could barely keep his eyes open. “Seraphina Cook.”

  Israel’s jaw ticked as his features blanked. He didn’t speak, and they stood there staring at each other, Van swaying.

  “Dutch said you were her son, and I can see—I…” The resemblance tightened Van’s chest. He hadn’t willingly confronted the memories of his time spent in Seraphina’s world, not since he’d been sent kicking and screaming to that shrink, but being this close to her son had those horrors rushing back.

  Retreat sounded good then. He should turn around and leave, but he was here. Get it over with.

  “You plan to finish what she started?” He nodded to the gun still pointed at him. Although Seraphina would never use something as quick and impersonal as a bullet.

  “Why are you here?” Israel asked. Van noticed he didn’t lower the weapon.

  “Heard you wanted to see me. To what, compare which one of us lucked out in the parent lottery?” That would be a no-brainer.

  “You drunk?” Israel lifted an eyebrow.

  Van chuckled. “Yes. High, too.” He shrugged. “Trust me, it’s for the best.”

  Israel sighed and lowered the gun with a shake of his head. “Come in, and close the fucking door behind you, Fed.”

  “Is, where’s the—” Another guy walked into the room, stopping in his tracks when he took in the scene. He was familiar, slender with light brown skin, eyes the color of bourbon—damn, he really was drunk—but Van’s fucked up brain couldn’t quite place him. “Agent Cintron.”

  “You know me?” Van took a step then stopped when the room started spinning.

  “This one decided to just walk in,” Israel grumbled to the other guy. “Almost shot his ass.”

  “Almost doesn’t count.” Van tumbled onto a nearby couch with a dry chuckle. Mel used to say that all the time. Used to. He flashed back to the conversation he’d just had with Dutch and moaned, distress cold in his chest. Sometimes he hated Dutch, fantasized about shooting him simply to watch him bleed. And sometimes—the few and far between times—when Van lost his mind under the pills and the booze and called him up like he’d done earlier, those times he appreciated Dutch’s tact.

  “You got this?” Israel’s friend asked.

  “No.” Van’s newly discovered brother sounded properly panicked. He’d smile if he wasn’t trying damn hard to stop the room from spinning.

  “You’ll be fine.
” Israel’s friend almost sounded amused.

  “Fuck. Reg.”

  “I’ll be in the next room.” Footsteps echoed, and when Van finally cracked an eye open, he and Israel were alone. The other man stood a couple feet away, arms folded as he watched Van.

  Van sat up, clearing his throat. The room no longer spun, so that was something. “I always wondered why it felt like she took special interest in me,” he spoke slowly to compensate for the slurring. “She was punishing him. Our father.”

  Israel walked over, closing the gap. He sat on the floor at Van’s feet, facing him. His face was serious. He had a reputation, Van’s new brother. Cruel and deadly around these parts. Van heard his name in passing every now and again. The man sitting on the floor before him was tall, well-built with his black hair barely a shadow on his scalp. Dressed in just a red t-shirt with the words Rated as the Best on the front, gray sweats and white socks, he gave off a relaxed vibe. The tension coiled around them though, turned that vibe into an illusion.

  He had his mother’s eyes. Dark, piercing, they saw everything. Israel’s gaze put Van on edge. He kept having those flashbacks. Blood everywhere. His blood, and the screams that drowned out everything else.

  His screams.

  “A year,” he said softly. “I spent a year on the inside. Took the job because I wanted to forget. She made me beg for death.” The slurring became more pronounced. “Made me want to do anything so death could come.”

  Other than the tightening of Israel’s jaw, his brother didn’t speak. He’d wanted to see Van. Here they were. Telling Israel what he’d gone through, what his mother had done, came far easier than when he’d been sitting on that sanctimonious shrink’s couch.

  “She wanted to break me, took so much pleasure in, too.” He fidgeted on the couch, the panic rising in his chest. His hands shook, and he swallowed, tasting the liquor. He’d give anything to have some right then. “So she buried me alive.”

  Israel jerked.

  Thinking about it was tantamount to someone putting a blowtorch to his exposed skin, cooking him alive as he watched and smelled his flesh burn. Every chance he got Van outran those memories, the images, by being someone else. Talking about it now shouldn’t come so easy, especially not to someone he didn’t know, someone who had Seraphina’s blood coursing through his veins. His eyes, Israel’s eyes, that reminded Van so much of Seraphina, they incited his words.